Facebook
Google+
Twitter
LinkedIn

New Poetry, Fiction, Essays

Epic Poetry by Gregory Paul Broadbent

Gregory Paul Broadbent

I live in Melbourne, Australia, with my wife and two children. I have been writing poetry for over 35 years and feel like I’m only just beginning. I love symbolic language in any form and believe that poetry is more than just words. I believe in whittling and honing down from complexity to simplicity in poetry and that some things in life are just so complex that only a poem will get close to describing it, and poetry exists in all art forms. Most of my poetry I compose in my head nowadays, but I envision a day when I will be able to hone out a masterwork.

.

.

.

.


.

Labyrinthine Invasion (From the picture cube)

.Per me si va tra la Perduta Gente 

Poseidon

 

Though we heard His scuffing, scraping hooves on soil

and saw breath steaming from His wide ballooning nose

we thought Him just show, a purple, painted, pot.

We built the Fresco’s.

We gave up our children to ceremony.

We settled in caves hallucinated and invoked the altered light of the serpent goddess,

for we were glad of bread and wine.

 

When the great booming bull bumped and thundered deep below

we were spared by the grinning matriarch gripping fearlessly His writhing tail.

We were grateful for technology, for pastime.

 

He gave us a pure, gleaming, ivory furred image from the bowels of his ocean.

He said “Boast possession but kill the idol, or die”.

So we let him graze and killed the moon.

 

Wrath is the dragon death blowing fire,

wrath comes from below mantle and crust,

wrath is kindled by expectation exposed in the fields

as the sun ripens on the Earth

trampling the freshly grown crops as ocean surge hugs the coastline into its belly.

The temples besmirched, villages emptied.

 

We could see all along that strange doom eating our children

in the intestinal wriggling of the labyrinth.

We could sense Pasiphae crying, though her wine stained teeth glittered.

We smashed her little bronze god for we baked our temples

and on the vitrified floor allowed our oppressors

vain-glory preening, pouting, pontificating

as they studied their image through endless mythologizing.

 

The herd gathers for stampede,

slight rumbles are hoar frost telling of winter.

Taurus may belch up rivers of ice and our enemy may swarm

but forget not the paintings, the pottery,

the gentle touch of sun on eaves,

the long winding away of sight and sound in the basking of ease at the end of labour,

the excited thrust of belief in discovery,

the initial motion to kiss.

 

Forget not we were bronzed , beautiful, civilized,

the mountains, seas; sharp, deadly,

Theseus and his captains, pitiless.

The alabaster oracle grazing in our paddock has eaten all the grass.

Minos, Minos, wilt not,

Theseus has won a mere desert for his children.

 

Theseus and the Captains of Operation Freedom

 

Into the blubber and flesh I hewed

hacking human from horn.

The sack, filled round, I held high.

Blood splashed on marble tile

as hoards of my captains spilled

into Crete singing for glory

and freedom…

 

Oh Freedom, we have freed

The noxious beast in his greed

Great Theseus, the deed is done

The tide is turned, the battle won

 

The secret pall kept deathly cored

at the heart of complex halls

had monstrous head.

It gored and  thrust as buffallo must.

I leapt, for choice, and kept hold of bone

mine eye to Orac’s own.

That horny head back tossed,

my legs crossed o’er my back

to turn intact across the heaving hide

of this evil infanticide,

landing fresco formed, sword raised

behind its upturned tail, crazed.

The sun upon my metal blazed.

In amazed cries I praised

freedom…

 

Oh freedom, we have freed

The noxious beast in his greed

Minos so your hubris done

The monster dead, the battle won

 

Europa carried by the will

of divine discord

did install her son, but he

upon a whitened throne relapsed

when offering, his will collapsed

the pure white Moby he collected

his disease reflected

and Pasiphae her will deceived

in Poseidon’s rageful creed.

He who topples kings and empires with

his noble seismic whip,

thus spake my starry thruster,

for whom ever knew Pasiphae would never trust her progeny.

Even she in death wailed

freedom…

 

Oh freedom, we have freed

The Minatorian super seed

Instincts do what instinct’s done

For choice, we kill; the battle’s won

 

Ariadne

 

As long as I am here

I might tell you the way back

along the dread-time road

for I do not do, daddy what you would.

 

You must not pass along the true pass

but hide inside.

Nor speak openly of trust,

nor ask what I would ask for you.

 

Speak to those you meet within, with my voice,

for I will say what they must hear

though they may not hear

what has been said by you.

 

I am the dark intermittent dawn

that knives the shallow flesh of peace

without being seen,

cries woefully at the gates

for all that has been lost

once they are down.

 

You shook and held my trembling hands

in pre-battle sweat.

You held my trembling hands.

Softly, you said, softly,

I will steal your father’s throne

and kill your mother’s seed,

 

and I let you in the gates

as easily as sun might steal

between the curtains of a lover’s tryst

so you could tap the heads of children and

banter out polemic

 

whilst your attention spanned

the vast corridors of my Polis for the secret door,

scanning my eyes for my heart’s revealing.

At the locked passageway

I would look an accused woman.

 

“Was it you”, my people would say,

“was it you that led the enemy

Through to Guernica?

For we have seen the limbs

of our children strewn

like a raven pecked carcass”.

 

I am not the re-known accuser

but my father’s cow-eyed darling

amongst your pyramids of torture,

the flesh of my family,

for I could always see

the way back.

 

Daedalus

 

I am the half-intoned allegory.

I am the unravelling flaxen thread

that built the dungeons of the mind,

and I leadeth you through

the valleys of death

to the mountains of serenity.

 

I am the yarn spoken briefly,

loosely, longingly, remembered anciently.

Twisted sinews of skinless muscle

around bones in the desert

stripped clean by pen craft

to lineament and rhythm.

 

I am the spinning web spun wild by Clotho’s hand,

the master at the threshing pool.

My master’s wishes sport my gifts,

poetry or bestiality,

nobility or disdainfulness, reckless or fruitful,

cherry blossom or yew.

 

Who brought the message to Mycenaean lips

that Minoan culture must die?

Who told the stories of Theses

and gave Ariadne her imaginal tongue?

Who made the wooden box that hid Pasiphae

or told the Trojans ‘the gift is good’?

 

Who now stands tall on Pentagonal grounds

on another box selling proliferate stories round,

lets the Gods decide they’re well or sick,

according to their will,

builds what needs be built and accepts his payment then?

 

I am constructor not of truth but labour for a coming day.

I lead you all through the valleys of the shadow and suffer no fear

for meaning must by nature change when nature change her meaning.

 

I am the spool spun for weak and strong,

protect the gentle people till time moves on,

lead the butchers to the glorious throne,

stand erect and note the fearful throng,

emancipate, escape the battle of moon and sun,

die with the rest, when my time is done.

 

The Minoan Elder

 

Children, we are lost.

The gentle headed bull tossed

out of our gates, along with us,

by great Theseus, the invader’s cuss.

 

We are fragments of hide so scrapped

by his avenging sword, entrapped

against our temple pillar

as this vicious preconceptive killer

lopped the pride of Pasiphae to carve

bull from woman, our culture halved.

 

Yet not halved, for no human hand

Would do this to our land,

and children, in our timeless woe,

our council of equals blood did flow.

Debate and common marketry

butchered by idolatry.

The victor raises now his pitcher

to Poseidon with enchaining stricture,

hails their kings who now lie on us

and sayeth Pasiphae were ruled by Minos.

 

Great woman, wonton sceptre,

keep her pure from this common klepter.

Dear children, dearest future,

your mother’s dead, your fathers loot you.

Where among her broken horns

are the olives, milk and wild acorns?

.

.


 

You might also like

And The Winners Are-

Spring Summer Chapbook Contest Winners. Our guest judge, Southlight editor, Vivien Jones announces her winners in CBC III as well as talking about the quality

Read More »

Share this post with your friends

You may also enjoy
Mike McNamara was born in  Northern Ireland but living in…